"I've no time for guessing games," Keevan managed to say with indifference. He began to shovel black rock into the barrow as fast as he could.
"I said, guess." Beterii grabbed the shovel. "And I said I have no time for guessing games." Beterii wrenched the shovel from Keevan's hands.
"Guess!"
"I'll have that shovel back, Beterii." Keevan straightened up, but he didn't come to Beterii's bulky shoulder. From somewhere, other boys appeared, some with barrows, some mysteriously alerted to the prospect of a confrontation among their numbers.
"Babes don't give orders to candidates around here, babe!"
Someone sniggered and Keevan, incredulous, knew that he must've been dropped from the candidacy.
He yanked the shovel from Beterii's loosened grasp. Snarling, the older boy tried to regain possession, but Keevan clung with all his strength to the handle, dragged back and forth as the stronger boy jerked the shovel about.
With a sudden, unexpected movement, Beterii rammed the handle into Keevan's chest, knocking him over the barrow handles. Keevan felt a sharp, painful jab behind his left ear, an unbearable pain in his left shin, and then a painless nothingness.
Mende's angry voice roused him, and startled, he tried to throw back the covers, thinking he'd overslept. But he couldn't move, so firmly was he tucked into his bed. And then the constriction of a bandage on his head and the dull sickishness in his leg brought back recent occurrences.
"Hatching?" he cried.
"No, lovey," Mende said in a kind voice. Her hand was cool and gentle on his forehead. "Though there's some as won't be at any hatching again." Her voice took on a stern edge.
Keevan looked beyond her to see the Weyrwoman, who was frowning with irritation.
"Keevan, will you tell me what occurred at the black-rock bunker?" asked Lessa in an even voice.
He remembered BeterU now and the quarrel over the shovel and. . what had Mende said about some not being at any hatching? Much as he hated BeterU, he couldn't bring himself to tattle on BeterU and force him out of candidacy.
"Come, lad," and a note of impatience crept into the Weyrwoman's voice. "I merely want to know what happened from you, too. Mende said she sent you for black rock. BeterU — and every WeyrUng in the cavern — seems to have been on the same errand. What happened?"
"BeterU took my shovel. I hadn't finished with it."
"There's more than one shovel. What did he say to you?"
"He'd heard the news."
"What news?" The Weyrwoman was suddenly amused.
"That… that… there'd been changes."
"Is that what he said?"
"Not exactly"
"What did he say? C'mon, lad, I've heard from everyone else, you know."
"He said for me to guess the news."
"And you fell for that old gag?" The Weyrwoman's irritation returned.
"Consider all the talk last night at supper, Lessa," Mende said. "Of course the boy would think he'd been eUminated."
"In effect, he is, with a broken skull and leg." Lessa touched his arm in a rare gesture of sympathy. "Be that as it may, Keevan, you'll have other Impressions. BeterU wiU not. There are certain rules that must be observed by all candidates, and his conduct proves him unacceptable to the Weyr."
She smiled at Mende and then left.
"I'm still a candidate?" Keevan asked urgently.
"Well, you are and you aren't, lovey," his foster mother said. "Is the numbweed working?" she asked, and when he nodded, she said, "You just rest. I'll bring you some nice broth."
At any other time in his Ufe, Keevan would have 226
relished such cosseting, but now he just lay there worrying. BeterU had been dismissed. Would the others think it was his fault? But everyone was there! BeterU provoked that fight. His worry increased, because although he heard excited comings and goings in the passageway, no one tweaked back the curtain across the sleeping alcove he shared with five other boys. Surely one of them would have to come in sometime. No, they were all avoiding him. And something else was wrong. Only he didn't know what.
Mende returned with broth and beachberry bread. "Why doesn't anyone come see me, Mende? I haven't done anything wrong, have I? I didn't ask to have BeterU turfed out."
Mende soothed him, saying everyone was busy with noontime chores and no one was angry with him. They were giving him a chance to rest in quiet. The numbweed made him drowsy, and her words were fair enough. He permitted his fears to dissipate. Until he heard a hum. Actually, he felt it first, in the broken shin bone and his sore head. The hum began to grow. Two things registered suddenly in Keevan's groggy mind: the only white candidate's robe still on the pegs in the chamber was his; and the dragons hummed when a clutch was being laid or being hatched. Impression! And he was flat abed.
Bitter, bitter disappointment turned the warm broth sour in his belly. Even the small voice telling him that he'd have other opportunities failed to alleviate his crushing depression. This was the Impression that mattered! This was his chance to show everyone, from Mende to K'last to L'vel and even the Weyrieader that he, Keevan, was worthy of being a dragonrider.
He twisted in bed, fighting against the tears that threatened to choke him. Dragonmen don't cry! Dragonmen learn to live with pain.
Pain? The leg didn't actually pain him as he rolled about on his bedding. His head felt sort of stiff from the tightness of the bandage. He sat up, an effort in itself since the numbweed made exertion difficult. He touched the splinted leg; the knee was unhampered. He had no feeling in his bone, really. He swung himself carefully to the side of his bed and stood slowly.
The room wanted to swim about him. He closed his eyes, which made the dizziness worse, and he had to clutch the wall.
Gingerly, he took a step. The broken leg dragged. It hurt in spite of the numbweed, but what was pain to a dragonman?
No one had said he couldn't go to the Impression. "You are and you aren't," were Mende's exact words.
Clinging to the wall, he jerked off his bedshirt. Stretching his arm to the utmost, he jerked his white candidate's tunic from the peg. Jamming first one arm and then the other into the holes, he pulled it over his head. Too bad about the belt. He couldn't wait. He hobbled to the door, hung on to the curtain to steady himself. The weight on his leg was unwieldy. He wouldn't get very far without something to lean on. Down by the bathing pool was one of the long crooknecked poles used to retrieve clothes from the hot washing troughs. But it was down there, and he was on the level above. And there was no one nearby to come to his aid: everyone would be in the Hatching Ground right now, eagerly waiting for the first egg to crack.
The humming increased in volume and tempo, an urgency to which Keevan responded, knowing that his time was all too limited if he was to join the ranks of the hopeful boys standing around the cracking eggs. But if he hurried down the ramp, he'd fall flat on his face.
He could, of course, go flat on his rear end, the way crawling children did. He sat down, sending a jarring stab of pain through his leg and up to the wound on the back of his head. Gritting his teeth and blinking away tears, Keevan scrabbled down the ramp. He had to wait a moment at the bottom to catch his breath. He got to one knee, the injured leg straight out in front of him. Somehow, he managed to push himself erect, though the room seemed about to tip over his ears. It wasn't far to the crooked stick, but it seemed an age before he had it in his hand. Then the humming stopped! Keevan cried out and began to hobble frantically across the cavern, out to the bowl of the Weyr. Never had the distance between living caverns and the Hatch228
ing Ground seemed so great. Never had the Weyr been so breathlessly silent. It was as if the multitude of people and dragons watching the hatching held every breath in suspense. Not even the wind muttered down the steep sides of the bowl. The only sounds to break the stillness were Keevan's ragged gasps and the thump-thud of his stick on the hard-packed ground. Sometimes he had to hop twice on his good leg to maintain his balance. Twice he fell into the sand and had to pull himself up on the stick, his white tunic no longer spotless. Once he jarred himself so badly he couldn't get up immediately.